The Fantasy I Wrote for a Woman Miles Away

For a long time I’d wanted to write this, and I never found the way. I tried several times, but I always stopped before the first line, as if putting the words on the screen would break something. It was she who gave me the push. One ordinary afternoon, in the back and forth of messages, she told me to stop overthinking it and just write it. So here I am, at last, letting this come out.

What I’m going to tell is a fantasy and nothing more than a fantasy, because the person who inspired it lives thousands of kilometers away from me. We never shared a room, or a table, or even the same time zone. And yet, there were nights when I felt her closer than anyone I’d ever had within reach of my hand. This is dedicated to her. To Lucía.

The first time I saw her photo, I could do nothing but imagine her in my arms. It wasn’t a decision, it was a reflex. I closed my eyes and there she was, whole, as if I’d known her all my life.

Her body is what I understand beauty to be. Not the beauty of magazines, but the other kind, the kind that makes you forget what you were going to say. She has a full, round bust, with nipples that seem to ask for someone to linger on them. Wide hips, the soft contour of her waist, a back that invites you to trace it slowly with the tip of your fingers.

And between her legs, a perfect cleft, warm, hidden, with a taste I imagined as sweet long before I had any right to imagine it. I didn’t need anything else. With that, my mind had already crossed the distance my body could not.

Because that’s what happens with her. My mind does what my body cannot. And I know, from the way she used to write to me in the middle of the night, from the things she confessed when she thought no one was reading, that the same thing happened to her. That somewhere in those parallel nights, the two of us were giving in to the same release our nature was screaming for.

***

In fantasy there is no distance. In fantasy she appears in my room without my knowing how, with the lights low and the door closed, and she stands there looking at me as if she’d been waiting for this moment for months. Because we were both waiting for it.

—I knew you were going to come —I tell her, even though it was she who came.

—I came because I couldn’t take thinking about you anymore —she answers.

And I couldn’t take it either.

My hands travel first, before my mouth does. I run them along her sides, slowly up to cover her breasts, and I feel her breath catch the instant I touch her. Her nipples harden against my palms, and that small detail, that involuntary response of her body, tells me more than any words could.

I lower my head and kiss her there, unhurried. One first, then the other. I hear her sigh, a low sound, almost a muffled moan, and I notice how she barely arches her back, seeking more contact. I bite her softly and she releases the air in one sharp gasp.

—Don’t stop —she murmurs.

I have no intention of stopping.

My fingers begin to descend. I trace her belly, draw slow circles over her warm skin, and when I reach the place where her legs join, I find her already wet, ready, open in the only way that matters. I caress her over her clothes at first, playing, deliberately lingering until she herself pushes her hips against my hand.

—Please —she says, and that word said like that, with a broken voice, is worth more than anything else.

***

I slide down her body. I kiss her navel, the inner part of her thighs, that delicate area where the skin is thinnest and everything feels twice as intense. I hear her hold her breath every time I come closer and let it go when I move away, and I play with that for a few seconds, because anticipation is also part of pleasure.

When I finally kiss her fully, her whole body reacts. Her legs tense, one hand drops to tangle in my hair, and she lets out a long moan she doesn’t even try to hide. I run my tongue over her slowly, learning what she likes from the way she responds, stopping where her hips move on their own.

Her taste is exactly as I’d imagined it all those nights. Sweet, warm, the taste of a woman who surrenders without reserve. I lose myself between her legs and feel her shudder, sipping from her as if I had a thirst that could only be quenched this way.

—There, just like that —she pants—. Don’t move from there.

Her back arches more and more. Her fingers clutch my hair, her thighs trap me, and every breath she lets out is a way of asking for more. I take her to the edge with my tongue and, just when I think she’s going to come, she pulls away herself, panting, with a crooked smile.

—Not yet —she says—. I want it to be with you inside me.

***

She turns around and gets on all fours on the bed. The sight leaves me breathless for a moment: the curve of her back, her hips lifted, her looking at me over her shoulder with half-lidded eyes. She opens herself with her own hands, offering herself, and there’s no more direct gesture than that.

—Fuck me —she asks, without beating around the bush—. I’ve been imagining it for too long.

I don’t hesitate for a second. I position myself behind her and enter her slowly, feeling how she takes me in, how her body adjusts to mine centimeter by centimeter. The heat, the wetness, how tight she is, all of it comes together in a sensation I don’t think I’ve ever felt so intensely. And that’s saying something, because it’s only a fantasy.

I start to move, carefully at first, then with intent. She answers with the same rhythm, pushing back each time I thrust forward, the two of us fitting together as if we’d spent our whole lives rehearsing this moment. While I fuck her, I let one of my fingers play with her other place, that tighter spot that slowly yields every time I touch it.

—Harder —she shouts—. Don’t hold back.

I obey her. I take her by the hips and go deeper, more determined, and every blow tears a new sound from her: a whisper, a sigh, a muffled cry against the pillow. There is nothing performed in it. It’s pure desire spilling over.

—Feels so good —I tell her through gritted teeth—. You have no idea what you do to me.

—Show me —she answers—. Show me everything.

***

My fingers keep working at her tighter entrance, opening her with patience, and I notice how her breathing changes when I do it. She likes it. She likes it so much that, just before I come, she turns her head and tells me what she’s been wanting to say all night.

—I want to finish with you in the other place —she murmurs—. Fill me there.

I pull out slowly. I press myself against that spot she offers me, help with saliva and patience, and push in with a gentle effort until I feel her give. The moan she lets out then is unlike any of the earlier ones. It’s deeper, more surrendered.

—Slowly —she asks at first, and then she changes her mind—. No, like that, keep going.

It’s delicious to feel her so tight, so hot, so willing. I move carefully at first, then to the rhythm she sets, while one of her hands drops to touch herself and speed her own ending. Her contractions grip me harder and harder, and I realize I’m not going to be able to hold on much longer.

—Now —she orders, her voice in pieces—. Give me everything. I want to leave full of you.

I have no resistance left. I let myself go inside her at the exact moment I feel her tremble, the two of us at once, both of us lost in the only thing that matters on that imaginary night. For a second the world shrinks to that: her body and mine, with no distance, no screens, no kilometers.

***

Afterward we stay still, still joined, catching our breath. She turns slowly, seeks my face, and smiles at me, that smile I know only from a photo but that in fantasy is whole and mine. We let ourselves fall onto the bed, tangled, one inside the other, until our breathing returns to normal.

And then, as always happens with fantasies, the image begins to dissolve. The light of her body fades, the room becomes mine again, empty, with the phone screen glowing in the dark and a message from her still unanswered.

But something remains. There remains the certainty that, even though we live thousands of kilometers apart, there was a moment when we were together in the only way distance cannot rule: in the mind, in desire, in these words that now, finally, exist.

It was a pleasure imagining you, Lucía. And I know that, one way or another, we will meet again.